Month: Apr 2013

Cosmic Soldier [poem]

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Sometimes one has to go where even angels fear to tread –
a barely-heard-of hinterland where one is neither live nor dead;
a world beyond the forest fires and quaggy mires of ordinary fate,
a semi-hopeless state where greyness has no legal home,
where demons cruelly duelly roam, poke fun and poke out eyes,
where mysterious means dangerous and truth consists of sighs,
where every trail leads off a cliff; where driftwood floats not in
the sea but in the air and nothing’s just and nothing’s fair;
where only patience gets you through combined with prayer
disguised as tears and nothing ever there allays your fears.
Yet freedom slyly creeps up on us when we throw away the map
and compass, wander down that muddy unmarked track,
explore the meaning of alone, face the bloody rumpus, then,
with luck (& after many thrusts of lance and sword) come back,
a thousand aeons older, a wounded tattered cosmic soldier.

© Alan Morrison, 2013

Call Off the Search [poem]

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“Make the most of every day”, or so they say,
“for you never know which one may be your last”.
Which sado-masochistic dreamer coined that koan?
Presumably a robot with no record of a past!
Is our only goal to stay alive? If so, for what?
For in this stricken broken world what reason
could there be for anyone’s desire to survive?

The Verdict [poem]

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The coroner (a meaty sort of man
whose mother made him sit for hours writing out:
“I must not touch my willy with my hand”)
composed a so-called solemn face
because he was the boss man in that haunted
clutch-at-straws deliberating place
and said with gravitas:
“The deceased took his own life
while the balance of his mind
had been disturbed”.

Sonnet for a Sacred Cow

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I rail at the sky, the sun, stars and moon
but no answer comes from the canopy
of endless empty airless nothing hewn
from vestiges of astrotherapy.
You sent me thingless to this barren ball.
(I am thingless still to this present day)
Of why I’m here I have no clue at all;
and everywhere… the rancour of decay.
It seems to me so vain to leave someone
revolving in a door with no respite –
a turning whirling carousel undone;
a never-changing waterfall of plight.
I’m not afraid to slay a sacred cow:
I’ll wrestle with You; choose your weapon now!

© Alan Morrison, 2013

A Thousand Words for empty [sonnet]

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And if these lips should mouth a futile void
what colour would that barren closedness be?
If every clear escape route had been cloyed
would hollowness be undone by debris?
Redundant questions plague my unfilled grey
and vacuum-spattered matter with their knives;
while every desolation’s yesterday
spits in the face of countless empty lives.
Thus, if you come my way with barefaced charm
and speak to me of love and hope and dreams
such vacant ploys will not my Hole disarm
nor nullify my vast cavernal screams.
So when I gazed inside my wasteland world
a blank white flag in windless space unfurled.

© Alan Morrison, 2013

The Antidote [sonnet]

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It seems the time has come to lay a wreath;
the spirit of adventure has declined.
The mass of souls takes shelter underneath
high walls deludely built by humankind.
Instead of striding forth without a dam[n]
embracing any challenge in our way
we choose to walk the limping hexagram
and thus reveal our lack of vertebrae.
Yet, long ago I found the antidote
to vacillation’s shrinking violet schemes:
Don’t hesitate to seize dread by the throat
and squeeze hard till you live your wildest dreams.
For only when to fear they have the key
can hesitating souls be truly free.

© Alan Morrison, 2013

I made up my Mind some Years ago

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I made up my mind some years ago not to tolerate bullshit from anyone. If someone wants to be my friend or lover or any other intimate thing (i.e. they want a significant place in my life), they must be honest, honourable, loving, faithful and true (and I will to them be the same). They must be self-aware enough to be able to police themselves not to be disingenuous, manipulative, aggressive or competitive. If I detect the least whiff of treachery, lies or betrayal, they’re gone from my life. It’s that simple. No psychos. No self-centred, immature narcissists. No “entitlement” types. No bullshitters. No game-players. No gold-diggers. No deceivers, hypocrites or inveiglers. No cowards. No bullies. No screwed-up adolescents disguised as grown-ups. Life is too short and too precious for anything other than honest, harmonious, selfless, loving exchange. I would rather be alone forever than in any kind of compromised, unbalanced, pathological relationship of any kind.

Pain. A word with no anagrams

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“Pain. A word with no anagrams. Indivisible. Unchangeable. Period. It begins with pain. It ends with pain — interspersed with windows casting shafts of strange-coloured light. Mindless, morphinic, mendacious illuminism. Even the end of the tunnel is just another window.”

These were the words he scribbled in his tattered notebook in the halflight, as the sun fell below the horizon.

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